


Dress and Tie

by Potrix



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Dysphoria, Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, Fluff, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Kidlock, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sibling Bonding, Trans Character, Transsexuality, lighter than the tags would let you believe, see notes for more spoiler-y infos and warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“But how can other people tell who you are on the inside? How can they see?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“They can’t, Sherlock, that’s the point.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Well, then they shouldn’t be allowed to tell you what you are. It’s stupid, it doesn’t make any sense.”</em>
</p>
<p>Sherlock knows a lot of things. He knows where plants get their green colour from, what the first element on the periodic table is, that DNA is the shortened form of the term deoxyribonucleic acid, how long it usually takes his mould cultures to grow to a respectable size and that Mycroft is his brother. He doesn't understand why people keep disagreeing with that last one, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress and Tie

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as a present for and with the help of my good friend **Benny** who’s been pestering me to write something about our own childhood experiences and for one of our favourite shows. So here we are. 
> 
> All the events in this fic are situations Benny and I have found ourselves in over the years, him mostly in Mycroft’s position and me in Sherlock’s. Incidentally, the age gap is accurate but apart from that we had to change a few things, of course. 
> 
> As you can see in the tags, this story deals with gender (dysphoria) and transsexuality. If those are topics you can’t read about for whatever reason, reading about which somehow offends you or are simply not what you’d like to read about, we strongly advise you to leave now. 
> 
> We realise that there are people out there who believe that writing about sensitive topics and making them into "entertainment material" is disrespectful and while we don’t see it that way, we accept that. All we ask is that you accept our opinion and take on the matter in return. 
> 
> This little project of ours was an experiment to see if we, a transman and a genderqueer individual, are able to put some of the anger and helplessness we experienced over the aforementioned subjects into story as a relief to us and, maybe, something for other people to enjoy and identify with. 
> 
> So, we either bid you goodbye if that is not the case or welcome you to our fic and wish you a good time reading it.
> 
> (See the end notes for more specific and slightly spoiler-y warnings.)

**Dress And Tie**

***

Sherlock is crouched over the victim, inspecting the fine white powder under her fingernails with a slight frown.

“You got anything?” Lestrade asks through clattering teeth, rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt to keep at least some warmth in his fingers. He’s ignored.

“John, what do you make of the incisions in her left wrist?” Sherlock demands instead.

“Dermals?” the doctor offers and smiles at the pleased look that earns him. “Looks like they’ve been ripped out quite brutally. Must’ve hurt like hell.”

Sherlock beams. “Precisely!”

Lestrade groans and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Body modification? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well,” Anderson chimes in, causing John and Sherlock to share one of their exasperated eye-rolls. “Seems to be a thing with the bloke, right?”

The atmosphere shifts instantly. The tension in the air is suddenly so thick, John is nearly convinced he could grab a handful if he tried.

“Anderson-“ Lestrade begins warningly, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“Please, Phillip, do go on,” he says sweetly and now John and the DI share a worried look, both recognising the signs of a pending storm.

Anderson, though, smirks openly, thinking that for once he’s observed something that Sherlock missed. “That’s not a real woman,” he informs them and gestures at the victim. “That’s a bloke and he’s obviously used to messing with his body.”

It all happens incredibly fast. Sherlock snarls and Anderson yelps, backing away from the enraged detective until his back hits the garden shed.

“Maisie McCann,” Sherlock snaps and pokes the stunned man in the chest. Hard. “ _Miss_ McCann recently started hormone therapy, between eight and ten months ago, I’d wager. _Miss_ McCann has acquired all the necessary forms to apply for Gender Recognition.”

John briefly wonders just how the hell Sherlock knows about that, but dismisses the thought. Sherlock always knows everything he needs to know. And purposefully forgets anything he deems unnecessary.

“ _Miss_ McCann is a _woman_ who’s been sexually assaulted and strangled and it is not up to you to pass judgement on her personal life. Everyone here would appreciate it if you could do your job and keep your highly inappropriate, ignorant and completely unhelpful comments to yourself.”

Anderson holds up his hands. They’re shaking. “Wait, just, hold on a sec, okay? I didn’t mean to... look, sorry, all right? But he-“ Sherlock’s eyes narrow, “ _she_ wasn’t always a woman, was she? She’s not really-“

“What does that matter?” Sherlock roars, slamming his fist into the shed’s wall dangerously close to the wide-eyed forensic tech’s head.

John takes a careful step towards the detective and places a calming hand on his lower back, but Sherlock doesn’t even seem to notice.

“What right do you have to decide on a person’s gender? How dare you assume that you know better than them?”

Anderson’s expression turns sour. “Jesus, calm down, freak,” he barks, although his voice comes out a tad bit shaky. “Touchy, aren’t we? Why’s that, huh? Having some issues yourself? Is it _Sherly_ Holmes, is that it? Would explain Doctor Watson suddenly switching teams, going for someone who’s not a real man. Easing his way into the whole fairy scene by shagging some halfway-“

It’s only John’s quick military-trained reflexes that keep Anderson from getting decked. Not that his own fingers aren’t itching for a punch, but starting a fistfight in the middle of a crime scene won’t help anybody, least of all Sherlock.

“Hey, Sherlock, calm down,” John tries gently, both of the detective’s wrists in one hand and his free arm wrapped tightly around the thrashing man’s chest. “Sherlock, Christ, stop it!”

Sherlock is frantic, kicking back against John’s shins and yanking at his trapped arms, all the while snarling and shouting and hurling out one scathing insult after the other.

It’s frightening to watch, John thinks warily, and struggles to turn Sherlock around so they’re facing each other. They don’t do this in public very often, both of them valuing their privacy and being unwilling to provide any fodder for the gossipers, but given the current situation, John decides to toss caution out of the window. He cups Sherlock’s jaw, forcing the taller man to look at him.

“Sherlock,” he says quietly, stroking a steady thumb over the detective’s cheek. He stretches and tugs Sherlock’s head a bit further down to press a brief, chaste kiss to his closed mouth.

Sherlock’s shoulders sag and he sighs against John’s lips before shutting his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. He moves closer, fists his hands into John’s jacket and buries his face in the doctor’s neck.

“Yeah, that’s it, come on,” John whispers encouragingly, running his hands up and down the taller man’s sides.

They stand like that for several long moments before Sherlock pulls back, gives a curt nod and defiantly juts out his chin.

“Go home,” says Lestrade, not unkindly. He tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow at Sherlock - a quick, silent conversation John isn’t privy to.

Sherlock nods again, then whirls around and stalks off, head held high. “Arrest her employer’s brother. The younger one who owns the tattoo parlour. Obviously,” he throws over his shoulder, rounds the corner and is gone with one last dramatic swirl of his coat. 

John watches him go before he turns on Lestrade. “That was a whole new level of unprofessional,” he hisses angrily and darts a furious glance over at the quietly fuming Anderson. “I know Sherlock can be irritating and inappropriate, but Greg, _that_ was all kinds of not good.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Lestrade’s voice is clipped and pitched dangerously low. “This will have serious consequences.”

John lets out a relieved breath. “Good. That’s good. _Fuck_ ,” he groans, pressing his hands against his temples. “Anything I should now? He scared me there for a moment, to be completely honest with you.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “Not for me to tell,” he says with a grimace and shrugs apologetically.

“Yeah,” John sighs, resigned and already dreading the discussion he’s going to have to initiate about all this. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll better catch up, damage control and all that.”

“John?” Lestrade calls him back a moment later and John turns, raising a question eyebrow. “If he doesn’t show up anyway, call Mycroft, yeah?”

John throws him a highly sceptical look. “Mycroft?”

Lestrade shrugs again. “He’ll know how to handle this.” 

***

“My?” Sherlock asks hesitantly, wringing his hands and shuffling his feet where he stands in the door to his brother’s bedroom.

There’s an impatient huff from inside the wardrobe as another dress - frilly, complete with ribbons and _everything_ , Sherlock notices with some distaste and a wrinkle of his nose - joins the forming pile of already dismissed clothing.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock walks over to the bed and flops down on it, head hanging over the side so he can watch his brother rummage through his clothes. “Why do you have to put on a disguise to go and see grand-mère?”

“Because,” Mycroft sighs, emerging back into the room with two blouses, one in each hand, “grand-mère is old-fashioned and doesn’t understand.”

“Doesn’t understand what?” Sherlock demands, brows drawn together in confusion.

“Turquoise or olive?” Mycroft asks and holds up his two choices.

Sherlock considers for a moment, then shakes his head determinedly. “They’re both hideous.”

“Yes, aren’t they just?” Mycroft grumbles absently.

Sherlock can’t be deterred, though. “My, why do Mummy and Father make you wear girl clothes whenever we go to visit grand-mère?”

With another heavy sigh, Mycroft abandons his quest and crawls up on the mattress next to his brother instead. Sherlock takes that as permission to sprawl all over the older boy. Mycroft indulges him, as usual, and loosely wraps an arm around the five-year-old.

“Do you remember what I told you about self-identity?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock and nods, eager to show that he listened and understood. He wriggles, heaving himself up until he’s sitting cross-legged on his brother’s stomach, ignoring Mycroft’s feeble protests. “Our self-identity is the mental picture we have of ourselves. That means how we see ourselves in our own heads,” he beams proudly.

“Exactly,” Mycroft agrees and smiles softly. “What else?”

“Sometimes we are different than we would like to be. Some people have long brown hair but would like to have it a different colour and style, so they dye it how they like it and cut it how they want to have it.”

“But sometimes?” Mycroft prompts and Sherlock launches into his next little speech.

“But sometimes it’s more complicated than hair. You like your hair, but you don’t like that your body is a girl’s body even though you’re a boy.” 

Mycroft swallows hard but nods. “Certain people think that what _they_ see when they look at you is what you actually are and they don’t understand that that’s not always the case. They believe you should accept what you were given and that it is wrong to change yourself.”

Sherlock looks dubious. “They think it’s wrong to change your hair colour?”

“No, that’s usually okay,” Mycroft chuckles, only making his brother appear more puzzled. “For some people, including grand-mère, it’s hard to understand that other people who look female might actually be male or the other way around. They want other people to be what _they_ see and don’t take into consideration how that may affect those people. They believe that your gender, if you are a boy or a girl, is determined by the body you were born with. And while that is true for the majority of people, it isn’t for everyone.”

Sherlock’s face is blank for several seconds before he gathers himself and frowns again. “But how can other people tell who you are on the inside? How can they see?”

“They can’t, Sherlock, that’s the point.”

“Well,” the younger brother sniffs with finality, “then they shouldn’t be allowed to tell you what you are. It’s stupid, it doesn’t make any sense.”

Mycroft tugs him back down and holds him close. “No, it doesn’t make any sense at all,” he agrees. 

***

Sherlock is quiet during the cab ride home. He throws open the door and leaps out of the taxi the moment the car comes to a stop in front of 221B.

John sighs, pays the driver and follows, climbing the stairs at a slower, much more reasonable pace. He hangs his up his jacket, kicks off his shoes and wanders through to the kitchen to flick on the kettle.

“So,” he begins as he’s lowering himself into his chair a few minutes later, one steaming cup in hand after depositing the other by Sherlock’s elbow. “Care to enlighten me?”

Sherlock grunts noncommittally from his position on the sofa, face pressed into the cushions and coat tugged tightly around his body.

“You don’t normally let Anderson rile you up like that. Mind, he was being a complete prick, so no harm done there, but still. What’s gotten into you?”

Sherlock pulls up his knees and hugs them to his chest. He attempts a shrug, but stays silent.

“Would you like me to guess?” John asks. It’s their usual course of action for whenever Sherlock won’t or can’t express what is going on in his head. Sometimes John arrives at the right conclusion, although mostly it’s just passing the time until Sherlock gathers himself enough to snap at him for _not_ reaching said conclusion. 

A slight nod from the ball of consulting detective.

“All right,” says John and crosses his legs, leaning back in his chair. “You obviously have strong feelings about the issues raised today. Anderson’s insensitive comments hit you on a personal level and you felt the need to defend yourself.” He pauses. “Or, rather, someone you know. How am I doing so far?”

Sherlock’s back relaxes a little which John takes as a sign that he’s on the right track.

“Okay. Well, I won’t ask who because if they wanted me to know, I probably already would.”

Sherlock makes a noise that’s caught somewhere between surprised and pleased.

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock. And I’d like to think I’m a decent and fairly intelligent human being, despite your calling me an idiot in every other sentence.” He gets up and walks over to the sofa to kneel down next to the detective. “I won’t ask and I won’t pry and I won’t make any assumptions. But if you, or anyone you know, for that matter, need some advice, medical or personal, or require any form of help or simply a shoulder to lean on; I’m right here. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbles and lets John press a kiss into his curls. “Thank you.”

John smiles and kisses him again. “Goes without saying, love.”

***

“We must go to the book shop next, My,” Sherlock whinges impatiently and tugs at his brother’s hand, trying to steer them in the general direction of his desired destination.

Mycroft bites back a smile and shakes his head. “The chemist’s first,” he says sternly, resolutely ignoring the overly dramatic groan from the younger boy. “I am not carrying around whatever ridiculous and undoubtedly heavy tome you decide you need today for the rest of our trip.”

“I shall carry it myself, then,” tries Sherlock. Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow at him and the seven-year-old relents with an annoyed huff. “ _Fine!_ But Mummy and Father will be most upset with you if I die of boredom whilst you prattle away with old Mr Buckley.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mycroft snorts, earning himself a narrow-eyed glare.

They make their way to the shop where Mr Buckley goes to sort out Mycroft’s prescription while Mrs Buckley squeals in delight at the sight of ‘wee little Sherlock’, pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair.

Sherlock, of course, is clever enough to accept the free lollipop before he casually mentions the four pound the woman gained over Christmas.

“Two, at the most,” Mrs Buckley gasps in outrage.

“No, four,” Sherlock smiles innocently and pops the sweet into his mouth.

Mycroft apologises, makes Sherlock spit out an insincere apology as well - ‘But Mycroft, it clearly is more than two!’ - and then quickly ushers him back outside.

“You’re a pest,” Mycroft informs his brother who only gives an unimpressed shrug in lieu of a sensible answer and keeps sucking on his lollipop.

With a sigh and a calculating glance up at the sky, Mycroft takes Sherlock’s hand again and decides to take the shortcut through the park, hoping to get back home before the rain starts. They are barely through the entrance gate when an amused voice catches Sherlock’s attention.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Frowning, Sherlock starts to turn but Mycroft subtly shakes his head and pulls him along. “Ignore them and don’t look back,” he whispers, quickening their pace.

The hand on his shoulder startles him and Mycroft whirls around, automatically pushing Sherlock to stand behind him.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” one of the two teens laughs while the other sniggers in the background. “We just wanted to say hi, that’s all.”

“Bradley, Winston,” Mycroft acknowledges with a stiff nod.

“Who’s that, then?” Bradley asks and jerks his head at Sherlock who’s peering at them through the gap between Mycroft’s side and arm.

“I’m Sherlock. Mycroft’s brother,” Sherlock says warily, curling his hands into the back of the older boy’s shirt.

“Brother, eh? Tell me, Sherlock,” Bradley sniffs, adapting a mock-serious expression, “are you a real boy or are you a freak of nature like your big _brother_?”

Sherlock scowls at him, not fully understanding the implication but sensing the teen’s hostility. “I’m a boy and so is Mycroft,” he states determinedly.

Bradley laughs again and this time Winston joins in, too.

“Come on,” Mycroft says tensely and nudges Sherlock to move. “Let’s go.”

“Not so fast,” Bradley tuts and steps closer. “We’re curious, you know. About what exactly is going on... _down there_ ,” he smirks, eyes travelling down to Mycroft’s crotch.

“Yeah,” Winston pipes up. “Let us have a peek, sweetheart. No need to be shy.”

“Don’t you dare touch me!” Mycroft spits when Bradley keeps advancing.

Bradley exchanges a look with Winston, both of them still grinning. “Lighten up, princess,” he says and rolls his eyes. “No one’s going to touch you. Ever. Tranny boy.”

“Filthy, disgusting weirdo,” Winston adds before they wander off, high-fiving and whispering to each other.

Mycroft closes his eyes, hands clenched into fists, and takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to fight of the anger and, although he knows it’s ridiculous to feel this way, the shame.

“My?” Sherlock’s voice is meek and uncertain. He’s still holding on to his brother, blinking furiously against the confused tears stinging in the corners of his eyes.

“It’s okay.” Mycroft reaches behind himself to run a hand through the boy’s hair. Sherlock presses his face into the small of Mycroft’s back and shakes his head. “They’re gone, Sherlock, it’s fine. Let’s go get your books, yes?”

Sherlock doesn’t move from his position and clings a bit tighter. “I want to go home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sherlock chokes out and then he’s crying, only dimly aware of Mycroft prying his hands loose and turning around to pick him up. “I don’t understand, My,” he sniffles and buries his face in his brother’s neck. “I don’t understand.” 

***

Mycroft does indeed grace them with his presence. He saunters into the sitting room an hour later, with Sherlock still curled up on the sofa, and plants himself in the detective’s chair.

John’s suddenly extremely glad that Sherlock allowed him to take off his shoes and replace the Belstaff with a blanket. It always makes him feel uneasy if it looks like he doesn’t know how to take care of his love, especially if that love’s fastidious elder brother is there to witness it.

“Good afternoon, John,” Mycroft drawls lazily and smiles that smile John never really knows how to interpret. “You are well, I hope?”

“Mm, fine,” John says, already getting up to make his retreat and flee to the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Thank you, yes.”

John flicks on the kettle and leans against the counter, bracing himself for the inevitable quarrel. The brothers’ fights are usually the most vicious after a disappointing case when Sherlock is angry with and disappointed with himself and accuses Mycroft of gloating and being smug. Mycroft, in turn, rolls his eyes at Sherlock and tells him to stop being childish and stubborn, reminds him that he worries and only ever comes by because he cares. To which Sherlock snorts and then begins to sulk, effectively leaving John to sit with Mycroft in awkward silence and cringe at his own idiotic attempts at small talk.

The water boils and John pours, arranging everything so he can carry the three cups and the pack of biscuits in one trip. The tray isn’t usable anymore since, well. Best not remind anyone of that particular experiment.

After taking a deep breath, John turns, expecting Sherlock and their guest to be in one of their silent staring contests, and nearly drops everything at the tableau he’s presented with.

Mycroft has abandoned the armchair in favour of the sofa, where he sits with one long leg tucked under himself, his jacket folded neatly over its arm and his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It’s the most casual John has ever seen him and it’s more than a little strange. It also makes him look at least five years younger, infinitely less tense and much more relaxed.

What has John freezing and stopping mid-step, however, is Sherlock. He has moved too, tucked his head under Mycroft’s chin so his face is buried against the politician’s throat and pulled the blanket up and around them both as best as possible given their current positions. Mycroft’s hand is in Sherlock’s hair, the other arm loosely wrapped around his younger brother and holding him close.

It looks cosy. And intimate, making John feel like an intruder in his own flat. “I-“ the doctor begins, cutting himself off when he realises he has no idea what to say.

Mycroft’s eyes snap up to him, but neither brother makes an attempt to move, silently daring John to say the wrong thing. Sherlock’s dead still and Mycroft’s expression turns distant, guarded.

“Right,” John says and walks the remaining distance into the sitting room. He puts the mugs and biscuits down on the coffee table, then goes and grabs his coat from the back of the door, decision made. “Be back in a bit.”

Mycroft inclines his head, his face unreadable.

John shrugs a bit and offers a shy smile. “I’ll just... give the two of you some space, yeah?”

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft says and coughs uncomfortably, looking back down at the top of Sherlock’s curly head.

“It’s fine,” says John and shrugs again. “It’s all fine.”

***

It’s nearly midnight and Sherlock is worried.

Mycroft is, in the humble opinion of his ten year old brother, the most pedantic, sharp and punctual person in the whole world. He is also late.

Sherlock spent the last thirty minutes practically plastered to his bedroom window, trying to peek around the corner of the house to have a good view of the driveway. Until Mummy came in, firmly closed the blinds and tucked him in with instructions to go to sleep.

As if, Sherlock had snorted to himself and got up again, settling back into the window seat. Mummy and Father don’t seem overly concerned with Mycroft’s tardiness and it should probably be a comfort, but it isn’t. They don’t know Mycroft like Sherlock does.

Father laughed and ruffled Sherlock’s hair when he voiced his concerns, spewing nonsense about teenagers not being the most reliable of people, tending to do impulsive things and go out to have fun with their friends on weekends.

Mummy kept reminding him that Mycroft does not actually have a curfew and that he must have decided to stay out longer than he told Sherlock without informing the younger boy.

Which is all absolutely preposterous, of course. Mycroft tells Sherlock everything. Mycroft is Sherlock’s best friend. Mycroft doesn’t keep things from Sherlock. Mycroft knows that Sherlock doesn’t like it when he’s left alone with Mummy or Father or the nanny and is very careful to always inform Sherlock of his whereabouts and the time he can be expected back.

And that time was over an hour ago. Scowling, Sherlock rubs his sleeve over the glass, wiping away the gathered condensation before mashing his face against it once more. The garden is still dark, the only light coming from the moon high in the sky. He can’t have missed Mycroft. The motion sensor would have picked up any movement and turned on the outside lamps.

With a frustrated groan, Sherlock pulls himself away from the window and jumps up. He grabs his pillow, the book on his bedside table and Farnsworth the bee, his favourite cuddly toy he will deny still having if asked, and makes his way to the door. He listens for any sounds from his parents and, after a few moments, hears their murmured voices from downstairs.

Satisfied that they won’t detect him, Sherlock pushes open the door and slips out into the hall. He creeps along the walls, keeping to the shadows and halting every couple of steps to make sure he hasn’t been caught, until he reaches his destination. He enters the room unnoticed, having years of practice in sneaking around the house soundlessly. It’s a useful skill he perfected in order to steal midnight snacks from the kitchen or pinch vials and Petri dishes out of Father’s laboratory.

As expected, all that greets Sherlock is Mycroft’s absence. He’s stomach clenches nevertheless, the uncomfortably sitting ball of fear curled tightly in his belly growing almost painfully big. Something is most definitely wrong, he’s sure of it.

Deciding to make himself comfortable while he waits, Sherlock slides into Mycroft’s bed and under the blankets. He turns on the bedside lamp and rearranges the pillows so he’s propped up against the headboard, able to read. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep now.

It’s the creaking of the door that wakes him up some two hours later, as a quick glance at the alarm clock informs him. “Mycroft?” Sherlock ventures carefully, instantly suspicious when his voice startles his brother. Mycroft should have seen him or at least noticed the light, however dim. He is not usually this lacking in perception.

“Christ, Sherlock,” Mycroft groans and proceeds to take several deep, slow breaths. “What are you doing in here?”

“You’re late,” Sherlock accuses, crossing his arms over his chest in the most petulant way possible. “Why are you late?”

Mycroft walks over to his desk. It doesn’t escape Sherlock how stiffly he holds himself. “The evening was rather more fun than expected, so I decided to stay out a bit longer.” He perches against the furniture, still not fully facing his brother. “It wasn’t my intention to worry you, Lockie, I’m sorry.”

“You’re lying,” says Sherlock, without hesitation, without even the barest trace of doubt. No one knows Mycroft quite like Sherlock knows him, after all.

That statement is followed by a moment of silence, two, three and then Mycroft sighs and buries his face in his hands, shoulders slumping visibly, his whole body deflating. Like all the air has left him in one big _whoosh_.

“Can we not do this right now?” he asks, his voice almost impossibly quiet.

Sherlock scrunches up his face in confusion. “Not do what?”

A half frustrated, half pained noise fights its way up and out of Mycroft’s throat. “Sherlock, I’m tired. Exhausted. All I want to do is go to bed and sleep, preferably for a week or two.”

“Yes, we can do that,” the ten-year-old agrees readily and scoots over, making room for his big brother.

But Mycroft shakes his head, almost frantically. “No, Sherlock, you need to leave. Please.”

“Why? I don’t want to-“

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snaps, patience gone, and slams a fist against the desk. “Get out!”

The tears spring to his eyes completely unbidden and Sherlock wipes at them angrily, embarrassed by the display of weakness. But Mycroft isn’t supposed to shout at him. He is the only one who never does which makes it so much worse now that he’s doing it.

“Whatever,” Sherlock says, trying for haughtiness but sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. He kicks away the covers and makes to stand, sniffling as he fumbles for his bee. “See if I care when you don’t come back at all one day.”

His feet tangle in the sheets and Sherlock growls, bending and twisting for a moment before he gives up and falls back against the mattress, choking on the first of a series of rasping breaths as he starts crying about the sheer unfairness of Mycroft’s betrayal.

But then Mycroft is right there, gently moving him until he can sit up and really look at his brother. The sight makes Sherlock gasp in surprised horror.

“What happened?” he demands, crawling across the bed so he can touch a finger to the bruise high on Mycroft’s cheek, making him hiss and twitch. “Who did this?”

Mycroft’s expression is conflicted but Sherlock narrows his eyes at him and lifts his chin, showing that he’s not going to back down. They both know he won’t hesitate to call for an adult if Mycroft doesn’t talk.

“I believed some people to be my friends and was woefully mistaken,” Mycroft begins, sitting down next to Sherlock to toe off his shoes. “We got into an argument and this,” he waves a hand at his face, “is the result.”

“They beat you up?” Sherlock asks incredulously because Mycroft, unlike Sherlock who doesn’t know when to stay quiet, never gets into fights.

Mycroft makes an affirming sound, standing back up to shed his trousers and dress shirt. “We were out at the pond when everyone decided to go skinny dipping. I refused and they weren’t particularly happy to learn why. I had to walk back. Which is why I’m late.” 

“I don’t understand how not wanting to swim in freezing water upsets people,” Sherlock admits and shuffles to his knees when Mycroft pulls his vest over his head to start loosening the bandages at his back. “Did you tell someone?”

“Who do you suggest?” Mycroft laughs, but it’s dry and hollow and clearly rhetorical. “Mummy and Father will make it look like I was at fault as they always do and I can hardly involve the police over a black eye.”

He tugs at the bandages and Sherlock turns away, knowing Mycroft isn’t comfortable with him watching this part. It’s stupid, in Sherlock’s opinion, because he knows why Mycroft uses the bandages and what’s underneath them, but Mycroft gets tetchy when Sherlock points that out and ignores him when he says it doesn’t matter to him what Mycroft looks like.

Sometimes Mycroft spends hours in the bathroom and when Sherlock goes to peek through the keyhole, he’s standing in front of the mirror in nothing but his pants and crying silently. He never opens the door when Sherlock knocks and calls for him.

The mattress dips as Mycroft lies down which Sherlock takes as an invitation to curl against his side, chin propped up on a fist so he can peer up at the older boy. “What are you going to do now?”

In reply, Mycroft rolls over and digs his fingers into Sherlock’s belly, making him squeal and giggle and completely forget that he still has questions.

***

Mycroft is nowhere to be found when John gets back, take out bags from their favourite Chinese restaurant in hand, but Sherlock is pacing the sitting room and pounces the instant the doctor steps inside.

“What are you playing at?” he demands as he comes to loom over John, glaring down at him with suspicion written all over his face.

John, a little helpless and very confused, looks down at the steaming food and then up at his fuming partner. “Eh. Dinner? I brought dinner?”

Which is apparently not what Sherlock wants to hear, going by the frustrated growl and the bared teeth. “Do not,” Sherlock spits and pokes John in the shoulder, the bad one, “take me for a fool, John.”

Having had just about enough, John puts his bags down on the sofa to brace his newly freed hands on his hips. “Well, you’re behaving pretty foolish right now, so I’d say it fits.”

A stack of papers from the desk is sent flying across the room with a sweep of Sherlock’s hand and John has to jump forward to prevent the rack of test tubes from following a moment later.

“What the hell is your problem?” he hisses, holding Sherlock’s hands clasped tightly between his own. “I have absolutely no idea what you think I did or didn’t do but-“

“Why are you so calm about this?” interrupts Sherlock, chest heaving and eyes blazing dangerously, ready to lash out again.

“Oh, believe me, I’m not,” John huffs humourlessly. “I’m pissed. But I figure both of us shouting isn’t going to do any good, so here we are. Now what is going on, Sherlock? I was gone for half an hour and you-“

“Ask and get it over with,” Sherlock grits out and yanks his hands free, stomping over to and flopping down in his chair.

Exasperated, John throws his hands up and shakes his head. “I have no bloody idea what’s gotten into you, but so help me God if this is another nicotine high tantrum you’re sleeping out here tonight.”

There is a moment of tense silence before Sherlock deflates, face crumpling. “This isn’t funny, John,” he whispers hoarsely and shuts his eyes, tipping his head against the chair’s back.

John snorts. “Yeah, no. I agree. It’s not.”

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock is standing in his space again, crowding John against the wall. “No, but what’s his _real_ name?” he begins, completely throwing John for a loop with the question itself as well as the way he’s posing it - his tone nasty and mocking. Before he has the chance to ask, however, Sherlock goes on. “Wow, you almost can’t tell, she looks so convincing. Why would someone choose this? Did he have the surgery, you know, the big one? Is it she or he now? Why would he transition if he’s going to be gay, then? So he’s not a real man? He’s wrong, he’s weird, he’s disgusting and a _freak!_ ”

With that, he whirls around and snatches up his coat on his way to the door, leaving John gaping after him.

***

Sherlock flexes his fingers, watching numbly as the scabbing splits and a lazy trail of blood starts trickling down over his knuckles, and pushes the door closed with his hip.

“Sherlock? Is that you, dear?” comes his mother’s voice from the dining room. He grunts out a hello but before he can slink upstairs to the solitude of his room, Father speaks up.

“We thought you went out with your friend,” he says pointedly in that way he always does when not-talking about Sherlock’s boyfriend of over two years. Or rather ex-boyfriend, Sherlock thinks with a grimace.

“Something came up,” Sherlock calls back as he makes his way to the stairs, hoping to get away before they decide to invite him to eat with them.

“Well, in that case come and join us,” Mummy hums happily and then orders for another place setting, her decision final.

Taking a deep breath in order to steel himself, Sherlock changes directions and takes his usual place at the table. No one mentions the state of his clothes or the forming bruise on his eye which isn’t at all surprising.

“Where’s Mycroft?” he asks as he holds out his glass for some wine, waving for the server to go on until it’s filled to the brim. He can’t be expected to do this sober and his planned high had never come to be since people are, apparently, disinclined to share their blow after being punched in the face.

“Finishing up some paperwork,” Father mumbles absently from behind his paper.

Mummy clucks at that, shaking her head a little. “Always with the work,” she sighs, turning to Sherlock. “Go fetch your sister, won’t you?”

It’s not the worst she’s ever said or done, not by far, but it is the final straw for Sherlock after Victor’s earlier questions and teasing and comments and “Oh, come on, Sherlock, learn how to take a joke, for fuck’s sake!” and-

In any other situation, the startled expressions on his parents’ faces when his plate hits the wall would be cause for gleeful smugness. Today, their obvious lack of understanding what has set him off only enrages Sherlock further.

“Nearly three decades should be enough to learn a name on a handful of pronouns, don’t you think, mother?” he sneers and tips over his glass to stain the perfectly pressed white tablecloth for good measure.

His mother has the gall look flustered by his outburst. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” she barks, throwing her napkin down as she gets up. “This is no way to behave in the presence of your mother! I expect-“

Sherlock laughs, realising and not particularly caring how crazed he sounds. “Your expectations are inconsequential, you manipulative old hag!” he yells which finally gets his father’s attention.

“That is quite enough out of you, young man,” he chides and oh, it must be serious because he’s giving them the honour of lowering his paper. “Sit back down, the both of you.”

Mummy complies as she always does, but Sherlock is far from done and rounds on his father. “Not acknowledging what’s happening in this family doesn’t magically make it go away,” he hisses, plucking the damned newspaper out of the stunned man’s hands and ripping it in half. “I’m never going to ‘bring home a nice, respectable girl’ and Mycroft won’t ‘go back to being a woman’ and play pretend to spare your delicate sensibilities. You have two gay sons and a wife who drinks and steals from you because she knows all about the secretary, the intern, the neighbour’s daughter-“

“Sherlock!” Mummy shrieks, hands flying up to cover her mouth.

“-and the dozens of other women over the last twenty years,” Sherlock steamrolls right over her protest. “One of your children is a depressed workaholic and the other a university drop-out and a junkie and yes, in case you were wondering, all of that is mostly your fault.”

The sting of his father’s palm against his cheek doesn’t even register through the shock that he’s just been striked, it’s the sudden breathing problem that alerts Sherlock to the fact that his nose is bleeding.

_“Get out!”_ Father thunders and Sherlock, after spitting a bit of blood and revelling in the fact that he has enough coordination left to hit the man’s shoe, grins and bobs a curtsey.

“With pleasure,” he drawls and turns on his heel, throwing a two finger salute over his shoulder before he spots Mycroft standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and horrified, and freezes.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathes and then stops, gaze flickering from his brother to his parents and back. After a moment, his face goes carefully, neutrally blank, his voice flat as he addresses their father. “Resorting to violence now, are we?”

“You didn’t hear how he was speaking to us,” Mummy tries, in vain, to safe the situation. “He was out of line, Myrella.”

_“It’s Mycroft!”_ Sherlock hollers, drowning out his brother’s dry, “I believe the whole street heard you.”

With a last glare directed at Father and entirely ignoring Mummy, Sherlock shakes off the placating hand Mycroft has placed on his back and stalks away, out of the house and down the path to the main road.

Mycroft finds him a good ten minutes later, slowing the car into a trot and rolling down the window. “Get in, Sherlock.”

The temperature must be below zero and he’s wearing neither a coat nor his gloves but then again, Sherlock’s also famous for his stubbornness. He keeps walking.

When he lets the repeated calls and pleas go unanswered, the engine is suddenly cut off and Mycroft slides out of the driver’s seat, cursing at the sharp wind as he rubs his arms and jogs to catch up with his brother.

They continue on in silence for a while, the only sound the crunching snow under their feet and the occasional car breezing by.

“Are you going to follow me all the way back into town?” Sherlock asks eventually, pretending he doesn’t notice how his teeth are clattering and making speaking almost impossible.

“Are you going to behave like a child all the way back into town?” Mycroft counters smoothly, coaxing a brief but sincere smile out of the younger man. “Sherlock, come on,” he stutters, “let’s go back.”

Sherlock stills at that. “I’m not going back, Mycroft. I don’t care what Father told you after I left, but I am not-“

“Back to the car,” Mycroft cuts in with an eye-roll caught somewhere between fond and annoyed, actually laughing out loud at Sherlock’s answering, “Ah.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t call them out on it,” Sherlock admits after a couple more minutes, carefully observing his brother’s profile from the corner of his eye.

Mycroft gives a minute shrug, huffing a little and watching the resulting cloud of condensation. “It makes no difference either way. They won’t accept what they don’t understand and they can’t understand what they will not open themselves up to.”

Sherlock kicks at a pebble. “They are our _parents_ , Mycroft.”

“I am thirty years old, I don’t need their support or approval,” Mycroft sniffs stubbornly, thrusting his hands into his pockets a tad more violently than strictly necessary.

“Needing and wanting aren’t the same thing,” Sherlock points out as they reach the car and clamber inside, stiff fingers fumbling with seatbelts and the heating controls.

Mycroft pulls some wet wipes out of the glove compartment and starts fussing with the crusting blood on Sherlock’s face while Sherlock squirms and complains loudly whenever Mycroft brushes against his tender nose. The familiar back and forth and the pleasantly warm air steadily rising the temperature around them manage to calm Sherlock’s flaring temper at least somewhat, lulling him into a half-doze as Mycroft cleans and prods.

“Your opinion is the only one that ever mattered to me,” Mycroft confesses quietly as he finishes up, making Sherlock splutter and cough. “But you didn’t have to end your relationship with Victor or burn all bridges with our parents over some trivial argument concerning me or my situation.”

“You despise Victor,” is all that springs to Sherlock’s mind and Mycroft snorts, stuffing the soiled wipes back into the now empty packet.

“I knew you’d see reason eventually.”

Sherlock arches both eyebrows at him. “You’re suffering from delusions of grandeur. I know you like to believe so, but you’re not omnipotent.”

“Working on it,” Mycroft says absently as he steers them back out onto the road, giving a rather undignified yelp when Sherlock pinches his arm for that. “You shouldn’t physically assault the only person willing to take you in now that you’re effectively homeless.”

“You won’t let me freeze or starve,” Sherlock is convinced and waves a dismissive hand, huddling in on himself for some additional warmth.

“No, I won’t,” Mycroft agrees quietly and, after a moment of consideration, Sherlock slides across the seat and rests his head against his brother’s shoulder.

***

All appetite gone, John puts the Chinese away in the fridge and then starts tidying up in the sitting room, picking up the scattered files and the vials that didn’t survive despite his best efforts and just generally straightening things up a bit. He briefly thinks about texting Sherlock to apologise, but he still doesn’t fully understand what he’s done wrong so he refrains. Chances are he’d only make it worse if he tried right now.

Besides, John has an inkling that the actual problem is in fact his lack of a reaction to-

To what exactly? No one, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft - or Greg, for that matter - said anything concrete. John could make some educated guesses, of course, although he’d rather not. He doesn’t believe he has the right to theorise and honestly feels no need to do so whatsoever.

While he realises that the subject is a sensitive one for the brothers, it doesn’t change his feelings for his idiot-genius or anything else about their relationship. John isn’t particularly close to Mycroft, they get along just fine and share the constant concern for Sherlock’s safety but that’s about it. So, again. No reason for John to pry or ask questions that don’t matter and won’t alter the way he does or doesn’t interact with Mycroft.

The situation would be different if Mycroft came to him directly or if Sherlock expressed a need to talk or clarify. It still wouldn’t make a lick of a difference to John, but he’d listen and tell them exactly that. That hasn’t happened so far, however, and he has no doubts that Mycroft will stage one of his abductions and do his bond villain thing should he feel the need to broach the topic with John.

As if on cue, the mobile he’s still holding starts ringing, very nearly startling John into dropping it and making him completely forget to check if it is indeed Mycroft being a mind-reader again before he answers.

“Hello?”

_“Your boyfriend refuses to leave, come get him,”_ Greg whines, followed by the sizzling sounds of something frying. _“John. Seriously. It’s date night and he’s just moping around on the sofa, eating crisps. Not good for the ambience. What happened?”_

John sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “I don’t know. We went home, Mycroft came by and I went down to the shops to give them some space to talk and when I got back, Sherlock was yelling and totally out of sorts.”

_“Ah,”_ says Greg understandingly, then something too low to hear to someone in the background. _“Hey, I’ll put you on speaker, okay? I need my hands.”_ He does exactly that, voice now a little muffled but still clear enough. _“He’s, eh, protective? Yeah, protective. And a bit extreme, I guess, when it comes to Myc."_

“I’m starting to get that, yeah,” John groans, tipping his head back against the sofa. Then he chuckles when the nickname catches up with him. “Myc.”

_“Shut up,”_ Greg chirps happily, obviously still in a good mood despite the pouting detective in his flat. _“But yeah. He stalked me for a week or so after I first asked Myc out. I think he might have been at our date, too. Had that prickling feeling in the back of my neck the whole time, you know?”_

There’s some murmuring that makes Greg moan out loud in frustration. _“You knew? What the hell, why didn’t you say something?”_

_“He would only have caused a scene,”_ Mycroft says, sounding utterly unapologetic. _“Good evening, John.”_

_“Yeah, but you could’ve warned me at least,”_ Greg complains through a mouthful of something or other. _“I hate you. Both of you. John, you can have them both, I don’t- hey! Put that back, Myc, I’m serious. Jesus!”_

_“There are more than enough,”_ Mycroft insists patiently.

_“Not if we have to be polite and invite John to stay for dinner ‘cause your brother is being a total wanker,”_ Greg grumbles petulantly.

John can’t help but smile at the ensuing kissing but decides to be nice and clears his throat. Greg curses.

_“Show him the case files you were talking about earlier,”_ Mycroft suggest. Greg perks up, giving an interested hum as he leaves the kitchen to do presumably just that. _“John?”_

“Still here,” John replies, suddenly a bit apprehensive to speak with Mycroft alone. Which is ridiculous, but there it is.

_“May I inquire as to what happened after I left this afternoon?”_ Mycroft asks, cool and collected as always.

John chews at his bottom lip for a moment, unsure how much to divulge. “We fought,” he begins eventually, wincing at the inaccuracy of that statement. “I came back with dinner and he just, I don’t know. Demanded to know why I wasn’t curious, I think. And he gave some examples. Of questions people have asked in the past.”

_“I see,”_ says Mycroft, opening and closing a cupboard before he goes on. _“And what was your reaction to that outburst?”_

“Didn’t have time for a reaction, he stormed right off after,” John shrugs even though the other man can’t see him over the phone.

Mycroft seems to consider that for a while, then demands, _“What would you have told him had he not left?”_

“That it doesn’t matter to me or change anything as far as I’m concerned,” John says immediately, then cringes when he realises how that could be interpreted. “I mean, it obviously matters to him, so it matters to me because it’s important to him. But I don’t care. Christ,” he chuckles weakly, “no one’s even officially told me what _it_ is. I’m just left making assumptions here which is something I told myself I wouldn’t do since-”

_“I’m a transsexual man,”_ Mycroft states easily, even sounding a tiny bit amused as he interrupts John’s embarrassed rambling. _“The majority of people in our environment, including mine and Sherlock’s parents, were not overly understanding or accepting while we were growing up. Still aren’t, as a matter of fact. You’re a medical man, John, I suspect you are well aware of the stigma and the prejudice surrounding the subject, especially some twenty or even thirty years ago. Sherlock is and always has been my strongest supporter in this, despite our differences and difficulties in virtually every other part of our lives. Sadly enough, his suspicion concerning other people’s intentions toward me have mostly been justified and confirmed. I believe he genuinely does not know how to process anything that is not the negative reaction he has come to expect.”_

“I don’t know what to say. Or do,” John admits, frowning down at his jeans as he absently plucks at a loose thread.

_“Dinner is at eight, I suggest you figure something out until then,”_ Mycroft replies and yes, now there’s definitely some mirth in his voice.

“Thanks, I guess,” John sighs but gets up, looking around for his jacket. “And eh. You know, it really doesn’t matter to me, right? I mean-“

_“Don’t get sentimental, John,”_ Mycroft cuts him off dryly and rings off, leaving John to stare at his mobile for a good half minute before he manages to gather himself and run downstairs to hail a cab.

***

“Conservatory,” Mycroft says, closing the door behind John before offering to take his coat, all manners and formality to Sherlock’s aloofness and sneering.

Sometimes John still has trouble getting his head around the fact that the two of them are brothers.

“The neighbourhood gossipers were insistent that Sherlock bore a striking resemblance to the milkmen right up until his hair went from straight blond to curly brown.”

Until they do that, of course. There’s no denying the relation when they’re in deduction mode.

“Right, thank you!” John calls after the already retreating Mycroft, smiling to himself as he makes his way across the sitting room.

Greg spots him first, sitting with his back to the garden, and waves excitedly, climbing to his feet to round the table. “Evening,” he grins, clapping John on the shoulder when he passes him to get inside. “Good luck with his majesty.” 

“I heard that,” Sherlock sniffs to which Greg only yells back, “Good!”

Putting on what he hopes is a reassuring expression, John slides onto the bench next to Sherlock who’s busy staring a hole through the table and actively not acknowledging the doctor’s presence.

Right. Lovely.

“Sherlock-“

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurts, reaching for John’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “I might have overreacted earlier.”

It takes John a moment to process the apology, a rather rare treat coming from Sherlock, and squeeze back, running his thumb over bony knuckles. “It’s fine. We’re fine, Sherlock,” he adds when he sees Sherlock watch him uncertainly out of the corner of his eye. “We’re okay.”

Sherlock, however, is still twitchy so John closes the distance between them, snuggling in close and pressing a brief kiss to the exposed skin above his collar.

“Do you need to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock confesses, letting out a long sigh and ruffling his curls with the hand not currently trying to sneak under John’s jumper. “What has Mycroft told you already?”

“Who says he told me anything?” John demands, earning himself _the look_ \- a cocked eyebrow and pursed lips. “Fine,” he laughs, nuzzling against Sherlock’s neck. “He didn’t say much. That people were not very understanding but that you are, and I quote here, his strongest supporter.”

Sherlock makes a disgusted noise at that, glaring down at John when he keeps laughing. “Someone had to be,” he grumbles sullenly and John sobers immediately.

“You were, Sherlock,” he insists, bringing their linked hands up to kiss the tips of Sherlock’s fingers. “You are. You care which, no, let me finish,” he says when Sherlock begins to open his mouth. “You care so much about the people you love and I think that’s beautiful. I know you think it’s not enough, I know you think you don’t know how to express your love and that you’re doing it wrong but believe me, we know. We know, Sherlock. And we love you right back. Okay? We really do.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock huffs but his eyes are twinkling and he’s fighting a losing battle with a delighted smile that’s threatening to break free.

So John kisses him and reads Sherlock’s soft sigh as the declarations he knows it to be.

***

“Okay, that is weird.”

“Huh?” John asks eloquently, looking up from his cards at Greg’s exclamation. “What’s weird?”

“That,” Greg whispers, extending an arm to point in the general direction of the study Sherlock and Mycroft vanished into - loudly voicing their disgust - when John and Greg decided to start playing UNO.

John has to abandon the comfy chair and perch on the arm of Greg’s in order to see through the doorway. He half smiles, half grimaces when he sees what Greg is referring to. “I think it’s sweet,” he tries which is not completely untrue.

The brothers are sitting in the small sofa in front of the fireplace, slumped against each other and probably asleep. No, definitely asleep, John corrects himself since no one is shouting or insulting the other and Sherlock is breathing open-mouthed into Mycroft’s neck.

“Man, does Myc only ever snore when he’s sleeping with me?” Greg grouses, shushing John when he fails to stifle his snorting giggles. “You’re drunk, Watson.” 

“Be nice,” John warns, “or I'll tell the British Government that you spilled his snoring secret.”

Greg gapes in mock-outrage. “You wouldn’t!”

“Try me. Also, shuffle.”

***

“Your fiancé is a moron,” Sherlock decides, ignoring Mycroft’s grunt at his shifting around.

“Do you suppose you could wait to call him that until I’ve had the time to ask the question?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. “Whatever.”

“Go back to sleep,” Mycroft yawns and slides his fingers into his brother’s hair in that unfair way he knows Sherlock likes and will calm him down. “I prefer you asleep. Much more manageable. Quiet.”

Of course, Sherlock doesn’t miss the opportunity to tease, “You’re snoring is keeping me awake.”

“Remind me, which of us sleep-talks about their-“

“One time!” Sherlock hisses and jabs an elbow into Mycroft’s belly, getting his ear flicked in retaliation. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Mycroft hums, resting his chin on top of the younger man’s head.

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock agrees and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Specific Warnings:** swearing, hate speech, misuse of terminology, transphobia, general dickheadery concerning the fic’s topics, blatant refusal to accept a person’s transition and the consequences thereof, one situation in which Sherlock reveals things about a person that would be very inappropriate if said person weren’t dead at the point it’s happening (and can maybe still be considered a bit not good)


End file.
